Changing times
On Sunday, we visited Zhujiajiao, according to the blurb ‘an ancient town built on the crisscrossing waterways that run from Dianshan Lake’. This particular water town is about 20 minutes away from Shanghai, and is of such interest that they actually charge people to get in it. The one (pedestrian) road in leads you under a twin wooden archway, one archway marked “Tourists” and the other marked “Locals Only”. We paid our money and went in, looking out for the sign that said “You’ll never leave”.
Predictably, the town was geared up for tourists; all the usual shops selling all the usual Chinese souvenirs, the junks on one of the wider waterways taking tourists on return trips for 100RMB for half an hour, the ‘fisherman’s cottage’ (another 25RMB to get in) and a ‘noiseometer’ (not sure if this is its proper name – they’re very popular, big electronic signs that measure and constantly display the noise levels in decibels – usually found by main roads). We assumed it was there to show how quiet this town is compared to say, the middle of Shanghai, but it simply encouraged hoards of people to go and scream at it as loudly as possible to measure their own noise output.
We stood and watched an old woman preparing something that I think is called a zong-zi. Whatever it’s called though, it’s typical Chinese fast food, on sale in every street in Shanghai, as ubiquitous as the chippy in England. For that reason alone, it never seems appropriate to stand and watch one being made – it would be as absurd as a group of Japanese tourists gathered round the window of Fred’s Fish Bar to watch him dumping buckets of chips in the deep fat fryer. However, since we’d paid to get in, and everyone was nosying around anyway, I didn’t feel so ridiculous. The woman took a large leaf, probably bamboo – but similar to a spinach leaf - and then filled it with brown sticky rice and a few other bits I couldn’t identify. She then wrapped the leaf round the filling and secured it with some parcel string. The woman had only one tooth, it was in the middle, right at the front, but this didn’t deter her from using it to bite through the surplus string. I think this was what put me off. “Heng how- velly good”, enthused Charley, buying a carrier bag full of them. He took one out and undid the string, insisting I tried one. I’m not particularly squeamish, I’ll try most things, but I really didn’t fancy this at all. In the end, I gave in and took a bite out of the now unwrapped zong-zi. The reason for the rice being brown and sticky was now obvious, there seemed to be some sort of toffee gluing it all together. I dread to think what it was. I found a bin and disposed of it as subtly as I could.
It’s constantly difficult to remember that China only really opened its doors to tourists 20 years ago. And despite all the efforts made for tourists, this little town was still clearly lived in, with life mainly going on just as it had for hundreds of years. Once you’ve paid to come in somewhere, the whole place takes on the feel of something there to be examined – so it felt acceptable to stare into the open front doors in a way that I would never do normally. The tiny houses in the narrow streets had the usual laundry hanging from every upstairs window. There were men playing Mah-jong in dark rooms, old women snoozing in chairs just inside their halls, and old men sitting outside their doors in their pyjamas as they presumably had been doing all their lives. It’s hard to comprehend the enormous changes taking place in and around Shanghai, and how those changes must be affecting the people that live there. One wizened old woman appeared to be giving it plenty of thought, as she sat in the doorway of her house on her stool, while crowds of tourists trampled past, taking photos.
Predictably, the town was geared up for tourists; all the usual shops selling all the usual Chinese souvenirs, the junks on one of the wider waterways taking tourists on return trips for 100RMB for half an hour, the ‘fisherman’s cottage’ (another 25RMB to get in) and a ‘noiseometer’ (not sure if this is its proper name – they’re very popular, big electronic signs that measure and constantly display the noise levels in decibels – usually found by main roads). We assumed it was there to show how quiet this town is compared to say, the middle of Shanghai, but it simply encouraged hoards of people to go and scream at it as loudly as possible to measure their own noise output.
We stood and watched an old woman preparing something that I think is called a zong-zi. Whatever it’s called though, it’s typical Chinese fast food, on sale in every street in Shanghai, as ubiquitous as the chippy in England. For that reason alone, it never seems appropriate to stand and watch one being made – it would be as absurd as a group of Japanese tourists gathered round the window of Fred’s Fish Bar to watch him dumping buckets of chips in the deep fat fryer. However, since we’d paid to get in, and everyone was nosying around anyway, I didn’t feel so ridiculous. The woman took a large leaf, probably bamboo – but similar to a spinach leaf - and then filled it with brown sticky rice and a few other bits I couldn’t identify. She then wrapped the leaf round the filling and secured it with some parcel string. The woman had only one tooth, it was in the middle, right at the front, but this didn’t deter her from using it to bite through the surplus string. I think this was what put me off. “Heng how- velly good”, enthused Charley, buying a carrier bag full of them. He took one out and undid the string, insisting I tried one. I’m not particularly squeamish, I’ll try most things, but I really didn’t fancy this at all. In the end, I gave in and took a bite out of the now unwrapped zong-zi. The reason for the rice being brown and sticky was now obvious, there seemed to be some sort of toffee gluing it all together. I dread to think what it was. I found a bin and disposed of it as subtly as I could.
It’s constantly difficult to remember that China only really opened its doors to tourists 20 years ago. And despite all the efforts made for tourists, this little town was still clearly lived in, with life mainly going on just as it had for hundreds of years. Once you’ve paid to come in somewhere, the whole place takes on the feel of something there to be examined – so it felt acceptable to stare into the open front doors in a way that I would never do normally. The tiny houses in the narrow streets had the usual laundry hanging from every upstairs window. There were men playing Mah-jong in dark rooms, old women snoozing in chairs just inside their halls, and old men sitting outside their doors in their pyjamas as they presumably had been doing all their lives. It’s hard to comprehend the enormous changes taking place in and around Shanghai, and how those changes must be affecting the people that live there. One wizened old woman appeared to be giving it plenty of thought, as she sat in the doorway of her house on her stool, while crowds of tourists trampled past, taking photos.
posted by Linda at 7:10 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home